


A Little Less Conversation (A Little More Action, Please)

by angelgazing



Category: Veronica Mars (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-20
Updated: 2010-02-20
Packaged: 2017-10-07 09:45:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/63897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/angelgazing/pseuds/angelgazing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Logan, Weevil, poker and fights.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Little Less Conversation (A Little More Action, Please)

**     i.**

They play cards spread out on Logan's bed in the pool house. Texas Hold 'Em and Logan is losing his shirt and it isn't even strip poker. He's losing so badly that if he were sober he'd be accusing Weevil of cheating. No one has that kind of luck, really. No one.

But he isn't sober and Weevil rakes in the pot with his hands sliding across the bedspread. There's a _shush_ of his skin across the fabric and Logan knows he's really, really drunk, because he doesn't hear the chips and quarters clinking together over it.

The radio is playing too loud, a station that Weevil chose and Logan never even knew existed before. It's been playing for days, he thinks, it's Monday night and Weevil changed it Friday, because the station Logan had it on was playing some stupid Matchbox Twenty song about how everyone here hates everyone here and they just aren't the types for matching musical backdrops. It plays a lot of soft songs, like ballads, and it makes Logan want to learn to play the Spanish guitar, a little bit, but only when he's drunk.

He's drunk now, and he's not watching Weevil wrap his fingers around his glass because he's trying to count his chips lying down sideways across the bed. His feet hang off the edge and feel heavy and his head feels heavy too. He says, "Oh, no, now there are _poverty_ germs on my glass," and his tongue feels heavy, his mouth feels heavy.

Weevil laughs and taps the pads of his fingers on the glass, drums them there almost. Tomorrow that's really going to piss Logan off, but tonight it's just sort of not. He's nicely buzzed and thinks people would probably prefer him this way. "Poverty?" Weevil asks, pausing for a second afterwards with the tip of his tongue on his bottom lip. "I think I may've made enough just this game to retire comfortably."

"Aw, but if you retire who in Neptune would commit petty crimes and wear leather all the time?"

But Weevil isn't, actually, wearing his jacket, it's folded over the back of a chair at the table they abandoned sometime around the turn of the last century, because they've been playing this game for fucking ever.

"Maybe you can fill the role," Weevil says with a grin. Winning puts him in a good mood and it hasn't escaped Logan's notice. "After you sign your pretty little trust fund over to me."

"You think I'd stop at my trust fund?" Logan asks, and laughs and actually, actually that's not a bad idea. He's grown to like having money though, years and years and years have taught him that having money is good, it gets him what he wants. Otherwise, well. It's not a bad idea. It'd be worth it for the front-page article and the picture of his father's face that would go with it. Christ. "I'd at least hit Vegas if I wanted to bankrupt my father with illegal, underage gambling. I mean, at least then there would be pictures."

"Yeah, I'm sure you'd look real pretty under some florescent police lighting. Get a nice little mug shot to go on the front page of the Enquirer."

Logan snorts, and rolls over onto his belly as Weevil gives up the ghost and starts shuffling the cards again. Probably Logan couldn't actually do it if he tried. "I'd at _least_ make Star. They've got glossy pages, it's much classier."

"A tabloid is a tabloid," Weevil says, and the edges of the cards scrape against his thumb while he looks at Logan like he's got a question.

"Watch it, Slick, your class is showing." Logan thinks that maybe he should make an effort to, you know, sit up and pay attention, because Weevil should be dealing again any second, but that seems like a little more effort than he's actually willing to put into anything ever, especially right now. "The Enquirer is more Hillary Clinton had an affair with an _alien_ who then gave birth to kittens. If you're looking for Aaron Echolls' Son Goes Bankrupt then you've got to look at Star."

"Uh huh, and tell me, is this like the fork thing, because really…"

Logan laughs, and would shrug but. He settles for laughing, and it might actually be because he thinks it's funny, but he doubts it very much. He yawns and his eyes feel heavy too, it's something to add to the list. "You ever going to deal the damn cards?"

"I think it's time to call it a night," Weevil says, and his mouth is quirked kind of funny, which probably just means he's trying not to laugh at Logan, but Logan is not noticing that. He's not. He's trying to decide if it's worth sitting up to get another drink, or maybe to take off his shoes.

"You're going to pussy out this early?" he asks, and scoffs then ruins it by yawning again. "Just so we're clear that means I win."

"You owe me your trust fund, how do you figure you winning?"

Logan is, maybe, smiling against the bedspread, which is stupidly slick and he doesn't like it all that much but it puts some distance between the house and him so that's always a plus. "You walk away from the game, Eli…"

"Just consider this the game walking away from your drunk ass," Weevil says, and somehow manages to get off the bed without disturbing cards or piles of chips or Logan who might actually be half-asleep. Maybe. "I'll be around bright and early to collect my winnings, don't you think about running away now."

"Whatever," Logan answers, flopping over on his back just to fuck with the piles. Just because of that, and he doesn't even notice Weevil grab his jacket. "Maybe if I'm lucky I'll choke on my own vomit."

"Hey, another great story for Star."

"Don't say I never taught you anything. Maybe next time we'll go over the fork thing."

"Oh, sounds great, except for that I don't actually give a damn."

Logan laughs and waves his hand in the direction of the door, or just over there, he's not sure. It's possible the door is in the other direction, now that he thinks about it. "I assume you can find your own way out."

"Bright and early, Logan," Weevil says, wagging his finger at him. "I hope you're properly hung over, just to make my victory that much sweeter."

"Go to hell," Logan says, a little loudly, as the door closes with a soft click. He sighs and rolls over to turn on his alarm while he kicks off his shoes. School doesn't manage to enter his mind at all.

 

**     ii.**

"You think you're a lot smarter than you are," Weevil says when he asks the question again. He's a bad liar, and that's pretty fucking clear. Logan is pretty much just willing to let it slide until he's feeling particularly masochistic.

"I think there's a reason you've got my girlfriend's name tattooed on your back is all."

"Your ex-girlfriend."

"My _dead_ girlfriend."

"You ever think that maybe you shouldn't drink so much? That maybe it's beginning to fuck with your head? I mean, I gotta tell you, I just don't think you've really got that many more brain cells you can stand to lose."

There are probably several forms of ancient torture less painful than this, Logan thinks, and says, "You're a fucking liar, Weevil, and we both know it. You don't have a sister."

"Well," Weevil says, and bats his eyelashes because that makes it a joke. That makes it funny. That makes it not the truth. "When we get to the point in our relationship where we share every detail of our pasts let me know because I'm sure Star would be interested in yours and I need to know to bring a tape recorder along so I can really cash in."

"I'll give you sign," Logan grumbles, flipping him off casually, but he sounds like he's six and sulking so he shuts up.

 

**     iii.**

"Just so we're clear," Weevil says, and slurs the words more than he ever has in front of Logan before. Logan takes it as a victory, like he's the bad influence after all and isn't it fantastic. "I don't care what game you're playing. I don't care how funny you think you are. I don't even care how much you think she's injured you. If you threaten Veronica again and I hear about it you are a dead man."

"What, you're her protector now?"

"No, man, have you met that girl? She don't need a protector. I'm just the guy who will break your kneecaps with _joy_ if you even think about laying a finger on her."

Logan laughs and bends down, curls around the bottle he's got in his hand. It's something Weevil brought, cheap and sour on his tongue, but it's better than nothing. Better than a lot of things. "You got a thing for Veronica Mars? Oh, man, that's—"

"I've seen how you work on girls, Logan, and it won't happen to that one," he says, and sounds so serious that Logan has to look up, has to take a second to process that before he laughs, because he's ignoring, again. He's having a Not That Masochistic moment.

The thing about Weevil is he's small time. He's always going to be. He steals hubcaps and breaks taillights and is the call-boy for Veronica, but he's nothing. Wasn't even the one who did the credit fraud. He's the leader of a motorcycle gang who probably works in his uncle's chop shop for extra cash on the weekends.

And maybe if this weren't real life then twenty years from now Weevil will be running every parcel of illegal trade coming in or out on the west coast, and they'd look back on his childhood with the gritty sepia-toned ghetto memories of mobsters past. But this is real life and he's going to barely finish high school and then go on to leave his knocked-up girlfriend for a tart from the 'hood, and come home covered in grease every night and always be behind on the bills. Besides, Weevil doesn't seem like he was ever the type for orange striped shirts and skinned knees. He's small time. Logan knows it, he knows it, and so it's hard to take his threats that seriously. Usually.

"You wouldn't—"

"Don't underestimate me, Logan, I would. I find out you hurt her, I would before you could—I don't gotta be sweet on the girl to not want to see her hurt. You want to be a jackass that's your business. You raise a hand to her or anything she owns again and I make it mine. Just so we're clear."

"Lilly hated me when she died, you know. And it was Veronica's fault."

"Bullshit, man, I've met you. Everyone that hates you ain't nobody's fault but your own."

"Wow, you know, I'm so glad we aren't friends."

"Gotta have someone who'll tell you the truth once in a while."

 

**     iv.**

The window is cold against his forehead, and Logan's watching Weevil's fingers on the wheel in the green light from the dash because he's not entirely sure that Weevil's ever driven anything other than his bike and he knows for damn sure that he's never driven anything like Logan's SUV before. It's probably worth more than his house.

It's not until they're almost on the edge of town that Logan starts to relax a little bit, of course he's had half a six pack and so he's probably more relaxed than he should be, all things considered. Just something to take the edge off though, before he could ask, before they could go. Letting Weevil drive was a sacrifice and he hopes he knows it.

He should maybe have had more to drink, he thinks, when he sees the highway patrol car turn around, because fate is a bitch and they were just joking about the mug shots. He hasn't even had a chance to lose any money yet, and Weevil swears under his breath and pulls over when the lights start flashing.

"Son of a bitch," Logan says, loudly, and it echoes inside the car. They've got the air on because it's too hot without it, but it's too cold with it and it's not like Logan wasn't watching him. "You weren't—"

"No, I _wasn't_—"

"I know, alright, that wasn't a fucking _question_," Logan snaps, as the officer taps on the window with his flashlight and fuck that, because it's not like they were exchanging blow jobs up on Lover's Lane, the tapping the window is all theatrics. And if there's anyone who knows about theatrics and drama then it's Logan.

"There a problem, officer?" Weevil asks with a smile on his face like he's not half as pissed about this as Logan is. Like he's just too damn polite to be pissed off. He turns off the engine once his window is rolled down. "I didn't think I was speeding."

"I need to see your license and registration, please," the officer replies, and looks over at Logan instead of looking at Weevil anyway. "Just a routine check, making sure everything is in order."

Logan sighs, and flips on the interior light so he can see to dig through the glove compartment. Weevil has to take his seatbelt off to reach for his wallet and no one has bothered to say anything about Logan not wearing his. "Everything," Logan says, "is in perfect order, _officer_."

"You sure? We've had a lot of bad things happening along this road lately. Lots of people getting their cars stolen while they're in them and—"

"Well," Logan says, and grins, he leans across Weevil to hand the papers over, bracing himself with a hand on the back of the driver's seat, "that's just horrible, I can't even imagine going through something like that." His other hand is on Weevil's thigh, and he shifts, brings his knees up in the seat with him so he can lean closer, make the fucking point clearer because he's got a half-empty bottle of Jack Daniel's in the backseat where Weevil tossed it and he'd like to get out of this and get to Vegas before the weekend is over.

Weevil tenses again, his fingers pressed tight against the steering wheel, right there in plain sight and the officer doesn't even pretend to be looking at the insurance verification. Logan's hand slips from the back of the seat to Weevil's shoulder.

"You Logan Echolls?"

"Yes, sir, I am."

"Heard your dad is doing another movie with Connor Larkin, is that true?"

"Oh, yeah," Logan says, and laughs, "they just _really_ like working together." His fingers press tight into Weevil's thigh, because fuck if he doesn't hate Connor more every time that question gets asked. Really, really hates him and the question. But he's Logan Echolls and that's apparently just his cross to bear or something. "Just can't seem to get enough of it."

Weevil snickers, quietly, and Logan's thumb slips under the collar of his jacket, under his t-shirt to press against the side of his neck like a warning or something. It probably works because he shuts up pretty quickly. Logan tries not to be too surprised.

"Where you heading?" the officer asks, and keeps watching Logan's thumb hooked under Weevil's collar until Logan moves it, just an inch and then back. It makes Weevil look at him from the corner of his eye and smile sharply.

"We're just going to visit a friend of ours in Vegas, figured we might as well share the driving since it'll be late before we get back," Logan says, and he's a better actor than his father ever _dreamed_ of being. He is. Might as well give him the Oscar right now, he's going to be the one to earn it first. "I know we were in a hurry because of visit hours, but—"

"Oh, oh, of course. Well, everything seems to be fine, I'll just let you two get on your way then." When he hands everything back he hands it to Logan, and Logan takes it because Weevil's license is undoubtedly going to be a great source of amusement. "Drive safely, boys, and buckle up."

"Absolutely, officer," Logan says, still smiling as he sits back in his seat, his fingers get stuck for a second under Weevil's shirt, but then he puts his seatbelt on and waves. Once officer fanboy's back is turned he lowers a few fingers in his wave.

"Visiting hours?" Weevil asks as he starts up the car again.

"Overkill?"

"Little bit."

"Well, it worked didn't? Now, onward toward Vegas, James."

 

**     v.**

Weevil pulls over at a roadside diner, and Logan doesn't pretend to be surprised, he doesn't bother.

"What," he asks, "you wouldn't feel more comfortable at a taco stand?"

"Shut up," Weevil says, and is still smiling with all kind of sharp edges, like it's going to hurt or something. Logan figures he's alright with taking his chances. "You pull something like that again—"

"He didn't even give us a warning."

"I don't care."

"Whatever," Logan snaps. "I could've let him take you in, that might've been fun for me, actually, and then when I went down to the police station to make a statement I could've gotten pictures of you in a pretty little cell with Joe and Jack and Bubba, who I'm sure would've loved you and you would've felt right at home."

"If you _ever_ pull something like that again," Weevil says, and lets the threat hang there. In the movies this is the part where they either fight or fuck. Logan's not sure which option he's rooting for, so he gets out of the car and slams the door.

 

**     vi.**

They ignore each other at school, and Logan wears sunglasses because he spends all day walking around with the kind of hangover that can only be cured by half a bottle of Jack Daniel's.

He doesn't look at Weevil when he passes him in the hall, but he hopes he's suffering just as much. It's only fair that he suffer too.

 

**     vii.**

Logan slips Weevil's driver's license into his jacket pocket when they pass in the hallway. It's a clumsy drop and at least two of his biker buddies saw it, but they're probably the ones slipping love notes into Weevil's pocket. "Good morning, Eli," he says. "Did you make sure that the pool was shining before you came to school today?"

"No," Weevil answers, turning to walk backwards, watching Logan without breaking stride at all. "But I made sure your momma was shining."

"Oh, this is a sad day, witty banter has been reduced to _I was on top of your momma last night_ jokes. And here I was expecting more from you."

"Well, I certainly met _her_ expectations."

"Steal any hubcaps lately?"

"Only yours, white boy," Weevil laughs, and then turns around again. It's sort of starting to bother Logan that no one even cares to notice these little exchanges anymore.

 

**     viii.**

Logan's head is swimming, a little, spinning. He leans back against the brick and it's cold, damp and smells vaguely of vomit and piss. He closes his eyes and tries not to puke.

"You're a punk ass little bitch, you know," Weevil says, but he says it softly like he thinks maybe Logan _does_ know and Logan's going to have a shiner in the morning, but he's doing a surprising amount of not caring. Their shoulders are pressed tight together against the brick wall, and one of those two things is the only thing keeping Logan standing.

He's not sure why he called Weevil, he's not sure when Weevil's cell phone number made it onto the speed dial of his, and he doesn't know, when he thinks about it, the last night that they didn't spend at least a few hours doing something slightly illegal or just hanging out. And actually, when he thinks about it, the last part is the more disturbing.

"I'm drunk," Logan says, and his head kind of lolls until it's just almost on Weevil's shoulder. Almost. They're against the side of the bar, in the alley next to the back exit and he's not sure how Weevil got him out of that, but he's pretty sure he isn't going to thank him for it anytime soon.

"You're always drunk."

"Not always."

"Right. Sometimes you're hung over."

"Sometimes I'm hung over," Logan repeats, and snorts like he meant to laugh at it but couldn't quite manage. "In all fairness, they started it."

"Why don't I believe that?" Weevil asks and shifts so that his elbow knocks into Logan's side. "You ever really been in a fight you didn't start I might just die of shock."

"God, just shut up, you don't know what you're—"

"Don't tell me to shut up, I just saved your ass from what I'd bet was a well deserved beating. You say _thank you, Weevil_, you don't tell me to shut up."

Logan laughs and lurches forward, drunk-clumsy like he never really is. He still feels like maybe he could throw up and if he could throw up on Weevil's shoes it might just make this night complete. "Shut. Up," he says, and walks at least two steps before Weevil grabs his arm and pulls him back.

His grip is tight on Logan's arm, hot like it's going to burn through two shirts and last time Logan saw him this pissed Veronica had a couple of busted headlights and Logan ended up bleeding profusely. "They could've beat the shit out of you, Logan, they would've, they were going to. I could toss you back in there right now and they'd probably pick up right were they left off."

"You want to, Weevil? Then do it, there's nothing stopping you. But if you're not going to then why don't you let go of me so I can go home."

Weevil lets go just to shove him. Just to get him that little more off balance so he ends up catching the wall with his shoulder to keep on his feet. He stays there and faces Weevil like he meant to do it, like he's just lounging, same as always.

"See, I would, but I think that's what you _want_. I think you got a death wish and I think it ain't gonna be me helping you get what you want." Weevil takes a deep breath, like it's possible to _breathe_ in alleys where it smells like vomit and garbage and piss. He braces one hand on the brick, right in front of Logan's face so he can _see_ and _pay attention_. A lot of Weevil is wanna be badass trying to get someone to pay attention and he's really—Really, he's kind of short. "Give me your keys."

"No," Logan says, automatically, with a snort. He leans away from the wall again, so he's on his own two feet and doing what he's pretty sure is a damn good job of it, too.

"Logan, give me your keys, or I will take them from you."

"We aren't _amigos_, Eli."

"And that's a fact I thank God for every day that I wake up." Weevil sighs, and reaching over and grabs at the front pocket of Logan's jacket. "You can't make anything easy, can you? This doesn't have to be a fight. You give me your keys, you take a cab home and sleep it off, you get your keys when you can walk a straight line without puking. It's easy as that, but no, you're gonna make me _look_ for them."

"Oh, yeah, I'm real threatened by you too. I mean, between the fact that you're an organ donor and the promises you make your grandma I've heard so many horrible things about you that you threaten me and I'm just shaking in my boots. Oh, no, will you let me live? Gee, I guess maybe, since if you don't you'll never get to finish high school and you don't break your promises, right?"

"Do you ever get tired of just hearing yourself talk?" Weevil asks, like maybe he's disgusted by Logan and not willing to show it. Like maybe he's just resisting the urge to hit him. Most people don't bother and it's pretty fucked up if that's how he judges friendship. "Just shut up."

"Or what you'll set my feet in cement and throw me in the ocean?" Logan asks, face drawn tight and Weevil's got a fistful of his jacket, and the blood rushes from his knuckles because his grip is so tight. "What was it you said? Break my kneecaps with joy? Is that your idea of service with a smile, or are you going to ask if I'd like fries with—"

Weevil cuts him off back slamming him back against the wall, not hard enough to _hurt_, but maybe that's just because he's drunk, but hard enough to knock the breath out of him. Hard enough to get his attention. "I said shut up."

"Or _what_?" Logan asks, and Weevil kisses him.

 

**     ix.**

Logan comes with his Weevil's fist wrapped too tight around his cock and his hand cupping Weevil's heart. It's not as girly as it sounds. It isn't. His palm covers the place where Lilly's name is written in ink on Weevil's back, his fingernails—blunt and chewed short as they are—press tight along the edges of the heart.

He thinks _oh_, so this is what this has all been about.

_Oh._

His head is spinning and he's not sure he can really blame Lilly at all.

 

**     x.**

Weevil sits at the foot of his bed, legs crossed at the ankles in front of him. His shoes are off, his belt buckle is undone and he's sitting there in a white tank top tapping two fingers on two cards impatiently, with a glass of Scotch older than both of them combined sitting steady on his thigh.

He's smiling like he does when he wins, like he knows he's already won. There's a hole in the toe of his socks. "The river's gonna get ya."

"I hate you," Logan says, and smiles in return. "I just want to be very clear about that."

"Oh, yeah," Weevil replies, and snorts, his tongue swiping across his bottom lip, "we're perfectly clear about that."

Logan sighs, and throws down his cards, watches as Weevil rakes in the pot again, chips sliding smoothly to his despite the wrinkles in the bedspread. "Gee, one more round and we might be out someone to trim our hedges. What with you being arrested for grand larceny and all."

"Right, because what fun is it to lose your shirt if you don't get to see Daddy's reaction on the front page."

"Wow, you know, I'm so glad you understand." Logan kicks his feet out and knocks over Weevil's piles of chips so they slide sideways and he glares. Weevil slaps at his ankle and it makes him laugh for no good reason except that they're right back where they started except Logan is sticky in places where he shouldn't be and they've never been here before. "Shut up and deal."


End file.
